Try not to cry when you finally know what I have envisioned with you now a hundred times; curious heart, as many sleeveless faces - unclaimed by any single one.
Dreamchild of love - I can be tender in any way necessary. Good face. Well spoken. Half-awake in the soapy smell you brought with you to bed. Spots on my knuckles where I bruised my own hands for cruelty. Only wanting to widen your slim smile, necklace your laugh with pearls. I was putting on coals, trying to find the right volume for my blood. The right heat.
I was quiet and drowsy by your white back - undefiled by certain "forevers".
love is finding your hands suddenly full of whispering petals and whose ******* roses are these?